


Heroes With A Plan

by monanotlisa



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bisexuality, Drama, Episode Tag, First Time, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Season/Series 05, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The present was yesterday.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroes With A Plan

::

Usually, John didn't like phones much. Right now? He hated them, because his cell was making him take his hand out of - uh, Tom's? Right, Tom's pants. When he really didn't want to take his hand out. For one, he liked it there; liked what he felt. Second, it was likely Tom would remove his clever hand from John's pants in return. From John's dick, which had gotten pretty interested.

"Sorry," John mumbled, and for once, he was. He really was.

After said removal - and an unhappy grunt from Tom; yeah, buddy, he knew that feeling - John turned around, wiped his hand on the most form-fitting pair of jeans he owned, and shoved his way out through the crowd. His hands slipped on bare skin, on tight, tight shirts, his body pushing and being pushed in ways that weren't hostile, not even a bit. Heat and sweat and pheromones that weren't from another fight-and-or-flight episode. Were instead from fucking, or the anticipation thereof, simmering under the red light of the back room, still tangible in the hallway where John passed more than a couple of guys. Trio of guys, too.

In the alley, John pushed the buttons on his cell, dialed the number. "Yeah?" he said, and if it came out a little rough, he couldn't help it.

"Colonel Sheppard?" The caller's voice wasn't exactly smooth either. John found himself much less interested in the bar and the guys inside it.

"What's wrong, Amelia?"

"Nothing regarding lives, sir; something regarding our location. Please return as soon as possible; we're gathering everybody." No emergency, then, but another Atlantis-related problem. Since Woolsey and the SGC were not actually into harassing John during vacations, it had to be something semi-serious.

"I will. Sheppard out." Okay, the last bit wasn't necessary. Force of habit.

It took John exactly forty-seven minutes from 12th Street to the City - his city, not San Francisco.

::

Teyla had realized early on that this cell phone, while a decent communication device in settlements, would not provide the same service in non-urban areas. Thus, she kissed Kanaan and Torren and made her way from their cabin to the camp in order to call.

She was mildly fatigued after after a day of exploring the mountainscapes in a manner called "hiking" by the natives of this place, using a boat shaped and functioning very much like an _atam_ on the lake, and beginning to learn about the horses of Earth. They were much larger than the ones she had once, as a girl, ridden in the capital of Jelaia in the shadow of the Ancient fortress, and Torren had been a little frightened at first. It did turn out, however, that these pony-creatures with the fluffy fur had been very much to his liking. Kanaan had even had trouble getting their son off the pony's back, so tightly had his little fists curled into the sandy-colored mane.

In the camp, she glanced around to prevent anyone from listening in. Nothing but the predator-safe garbage bins and a few dust-colored birds peering up at her hopefully. She lifted the receiver and dialed.

"Teyla, is that you?"

She politely refrained from asking who else called Atlantis at exactly 10 pm each night. "Yes, it is. Is everything in order?"

Amelia's deep breath told Teyla more than her following words. "I'm afraid not. It's not earth-shattering, but - when could you be back?"

She calculated the routes in her head, subtracting a good percentage of the time because her rented Mustang convertible would get Kanaan, Torren, and her back to San Francisco much faster now that it was dark and the roads were clear. 'Rush hour' was exactly the bane Rodney had described it as, preventing her from going as fast as this vehicle allowed. Which was a shame; for ground transportation, it was rather pleasure-inducing, both she and Kanaan had agreed. "Three hours, Amelia, with a thirty-minute margin for error."

"Thanks. Sorry for interrupting your family's Lake Tahoe vacation, Teyla. See you then."

Unfortunately, yes. "See you, Amelia."

::

From the time Ronon heard his phone ring till the time he pressed "talk," exactly one second passed. He ignored Roberto's huffy sigh and Li's tittering. What was happening here was important to him but irrelevant in the larger picture. Only people who mattered had this number.

"Yeah?"

"Ronon, hello," Amelia's voice. He hoped this was just a friendly call asking for a meet-up later. But he knew better. "Don't be alarmed, Ronon; we're fine. You're still in San Francisco, right? We have a situation here."

He stood up, not minding yet more sounds from all of them, from photographers to the lighting assistants and make-up experts. "On my way."

Yet his body didn't feel right. He was still wearing the gray suit with the little stripes they had given him, plus the black leather shoes and that dangly strip around his neck made from the same material (why the Earthers called it "tie" when it didn't really tie anything, Ronon would never understand). So. He took off the jacket, pulled the blazing-white dress shirt over his head. Let the suit pants pool at his ankles before stepping back into his own clothes: leather that fit him like a second skin.

He thought he heard several gasps in the background. Earthers were just weird.

"Please, Ronon." Roberto had actually put his camera down and stepped towards him, half-blocking the studio exit. Not that he could keep Ronon from getting out. But violence was not always a solution. Only most of the time. "We've only gotten started today, and see, Sab is already re-arranging the lights for the black-and-white session."

Li stepped up, nodding. "Ronon, why don't you finish at least this round? Surely it's not an emergency?" She was lovely, hair as dark as _gezo_ stones. But even if Amelia weren't in the picture, this woman couldn't keep him from returning to his friends.

"It is."

They both blinked, Roberto's eyes widening behind their frames. "Oh. Well. Maybe we can re-schedule? Tomorrow - how does tomorrow sound to you?"

Unconsciously, they had already shifted out of the way. Consciously, Ronon pushed all thoughts of this project out of his mind. He might not return. These photographers had already snapped many photos after he had signed that dotted line only this morning; they could already be displayed on screen and paper. He would ask for them as tokens of memory: a gift for each of his friends plus one for Amelia, so they would not forget him the next time.

There would be a next time, a last time. It was just a matter of how long. He'd always known. Now, he felt it too.

"Sounds like maybe," he said, and walked out.

He stepped onto the street called Lombard. One of those taxi-cabs would get him to the side of the Bay where Atlantis was; he could run the remaining three miles and thus not give their position away.

Twenty minutes, Ronon estimated. He'd try to be faster, though. And make sure the taxi-cab driver did the same.

::

Rodney was not relatively but absolutely sure he'd never before been so grateful for a simple phone call. "Excuse me," he mumbled, forcing the facsimile of a smile on his face and stumbling into the kitchen, not without wiping his forehead with the cloth napkin he'd taken along by pure accident.

His thumb slipped on the call button, not once but twice. "McKay here, hi, please tell me I need to return immediately?"

"Uh." Amelia was usually as calm as a cucumber, professional to the n-th degree, but this she probably hadn't expected. Hell, not like he had thought he'd wish for nothing so much as to get away from the Keller residence. "Yes, sir. I should tell you that the situation is not life-threatening, but it would still be good -"

"To be back right away, yes, of course. Emergency. Everything at stake." He made sure to raise his voice so Hank would be able to hear it at the dinner table, not to mention Jennifer. Oh, if only not to mention Jennifer.

He could practically hear Amelia's confusion. "Dr. McKay -"

"Wait; didn't we agree on 'Rodney' the day before yesterday, in the blue-light bar with the, with the excellent martinis? Due to the whole Ronon-dating-you thing?"

"Right. Rodney." The word was obviously taste-tested again. See? Very professional, the girl. "Rodney, it's urgent, but not quite like that. Is Dr. Keller - is Jennifer with you?"

Alas, yes. "Al - _also_ here, yes. I take it we both are needed?"

"That's the case, yes. When could you be here?"

"We have to get from Chippewa Falls to Chippewa Valley Regional Airport, then to San Francisco. Best case scenario - five hours?" Damn. This was going to be the longest intra-continental flight of his life.

::

Rodney finally saw him just after 9 am on the way to Mahogany Mania - what? Woolsey had totally been asking for conference room nicknames when he had that table brought from the Milky Way. "Sheppard, wait!"

John dutifully slowed his step, threw him a smile. His eyes didn't crinkle at the corners, though, so it was probably one of the fakes. "Hey, Rodney."

"So, do you know what this is all about? I've already asked: Zelenka says everything's fine - finer than fine; they've repaired all engines and essential systems and even made some progress on the wormhole drive that's only halfway decent without me around but still not entirely disappointing, and -"

"Thanks for asking, Rodney, my time off was great." Now this John smile was definitely fake: 100% non-genuine, a little mocking. "How were your weeks in Chippewa Falls with Jennifer?"

Well. Now it was Rodney's turn to slow down, because staring very intently at the ground meant one couldn't barge ahead quite so fast. "Uh, about that...maybe we could discuss that one later, after the current non-tech-related crisis has been resolved? I'm currently suppressing that experience, and suppressing it surprisingly well, so please do me the favor of not asking inane questions along the lines of, Trouble In Paradise?"

Rodney looked up, as this had seemingly caught John's interest, if the furrowed brow and the slight twist of his mouth were any indication. "Sure, yeah." His tone was light, however, as though he were talking about the weather (which he never did. John was, thankfully, not a small-talker). "You can tell me later. Or not."

What was that supposed to mean again? Really, Rodney wanted a Sheppard-English dictionary sometimes. Because he almost always wanted to talk to John, who was, after all, the only person with whom this whole thing - the expedition, the tasks, the missions - felt more like adventures and less than the catastrophes they so often were.

"I will." He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a small flash of the real thing on Sheppard's face.

::

When they took their seats in the meeting room, John noticed Jennifer and Rodney chose seats as far away from each other as possible without sitting opposite of each other. Jennifer was - actually, she looked not too bad. Uncomfortable, but neither bereft nor angry, as far as John could see. It was hard to tell with women. Rodney, of course, looked pretty thoroughly unhappy. No wringing of hands or dramatic displays of grief, though. Which was good. Probably?

"Thank you all for returning from your much-deserved vacations." Woolsey actually looked regretful while scanning the people at the table, from Rodney over Jennifer to John. The man was a bureaucrat, John knew, but somehow, he'd held onto his heart. "As you may have already heard through informal channels -"

John wasn't sure, but was that Ronon humming a few lines of "I Heard it through the Grapevine?" Teyla did understand pop culture, but it was Ronon who _got_ it. Rodney blinked at Ronon, too. But mostly, Rodney looked impatient. Maybe it'd have been nicer to tell Rodney on the way to this meeting about the rumors he'd heard.

But then, John wasn't very nice.

"- that there is nothing wrong with the city but its very presence here: There have been problems with our incognito status." Teyla gave Woolsey a pointed look, and Ronon's eyebrows rise dangerously. Woolsey was conditioned by now; he immediately adds, "By which I mean, the press has somehow been informed, or possibly researched that the naval quarantine zone is protecting something of great size and value related to a government project."

Okay. John leaned back, ran his hand across his chin, and waited for more.

"What are we talking about, here?" Rodney's fingers were drumming on the table, gently but insistently. "CNN? Or more like the Ocean Beach Gazette?"

"So far, it has been the local equivalents of _News of the World_ and other rag-tag yellow-press papers." Woolsey looked vaguely pained. Yeah, this was hardly what Mr. Washington Post was used to. "But now it seems regional and nation-wide media have gotten wind of this. The _San Francisco Chronicle_ has contacted their less reputed brethren, which have in fact been scouting the area in hired boats, snapping photos, setting up guard on the perimeter. And well, this is why we contacted you at night: less of a chance of them setting sight of our comings and goings."

Huh. John felt a small smirk appearing. "So, basically, we have a paparazzi problem?"

Next to him, Rodney groaned something that sounded like, "...anything ever."

"I'm afraid," Woolsey said, taking off his glasses to polish them with a perfectly-crinkled purple cloth he'd produced from _somewhere_, John had no idea, "you could call it that." His voice told them that this wasn't the term he'd have used, but that he was above petty terminology disputes. In this case.

Teyla said, "Mr. Woolsey, I gather these are not respected media sources. The other night when I stopped to re-fuel my vehicle," she gave John a small smile, probably for the - awesome - Mustang recommendation, "I saw the paper you mentioned announce that a woman who seemed to be a famous singer had given birth to a puppy. Surely no one will believe should they talk about spaceships?"

"Very apt, Teyla." There it was, Woolsey's schoolteacher spiel: a paternal smile that only lacked the gold star hand-out. "And yet, in the past, they have gotten hold of our Asgard allies and taken admittedly very blurry and non-identifying photos of some of our test model crafts. Not to mention that the yellow press has often been the first step towards uncovering government projects."

John and Rodney spoke almost simultaneously, "The JFK assassination?" and "Watergate?" then grinned at each other. John forgot how different Rodney looked when he was laughing - younger, radiant, weirdly pretty, only that wasn't a road John was big on going down again.

Funny how Woolsey didn't find that funny. "Need I remind you that this may not be your usual life-threatening disaster, but that it still requires our consideration? Especially now that we're only one step from CNN journalists swarming in."

"How about we just shut them up?"

All eyes turned to Ronon; John was no exception. Neither was Rodney, whose eyes had widened. "What, with violence? We cannot - I don't know, _beat up_ every smarmy reporter in the Bay Area! I mean, for one thing, we'd be at it for weeks!"

A snort from Ronon. "Relax, McKay. I meant: show them something. An explanation for the zone."

Woolsey was visibly pleased by that. "This had occurred to me, too. However, all explanations the IOA and I have come up with so far point towards the truth."

The truth being that there was, after all, a secret fucking government project. Sometimes, being The Man sucked more than usual. John shrugged. "Why not give them just that? Give them Atlantis."

"Have you lost your mind, John?" So Rodney remembered his name again. John shouldn't have been quite as amused by that. "I think when Ronon said, 'shut them up,' he did not mean, 'let's give them something to talk about." Jazz hands, too. John would have smiled, except Rodney was serious, and Woolsey had already given them flak once.

"Nope. Think about it: if the serious newspapers and TV corporations get involved, they won't believe an outlandish explanation." Well. A spaceship in the Bay? Back when, John knew he would have laughed - not even that.

Unsurprisingly, Teyla nodded. Bless her. She tended to believe in the more reasonable side of the human character. "From what I gathered, your people know of Atlantis as a city submerged in a sea far away, by another continent. And even in Pegasus, people did not realize Atlantis was mobile."

"Yes, yes, the truth will set us free." There it was, the expected Rodney eye-roll. "I'll give you yet more rationality, Scully: While most people are complete morons, not all of them are. Think of the risk of releasing information that might one day - not now, necessarily, but later - enable some over-eager reporter to put all the pieces together and expose not just Stargate Command but the, may I remind you, _secret_ of alien life altogether?"

John had never thought of himself as particularly Mulder-ish before. And no offense to Rodney, but Gillian Anderson was hotter than he was.

A little, anyway.

"Gentlemen," for a moment, Woolsey sounded eerily like Elizabeth, and whoa, when John glanced at Rodney, it seemed that Rodney had thought the same thing, "speaking of alien life: Don't forget the Wraith. If Earth's reporters get wind of an alien race hell-bent on, pardon my frankness, sucking the life out of all us, and one this very expedition roused from its hibernation period?" _Ouch_, John thought, "I cannot begin to imagine the panic and the blame. The reactions of major world religions. The _political consequences_." Woolsey was still using his officially calmest voice, but his hands gripped the edge of the table damn tightly.

Fair enough. John didn't have to check Rodney's expression to find him in agreement. (He still did, though.)

"So let's go." Ronon again. Ronon could make the most complicated situations sound simple. John really admired that in the guy. "We're a security risk here. All made-up stories are dangerous. Leaves only one way out."

"You know, this might not be a terrible idea; the engines are repaired, and the shields are restored again. We're of no use to Earth any more now that the threat of the Wraith ships who caught that stray signal is destroyed." Rodney looked thoughtful, with an added touch of enthusiasm.

Sure, John hated running from anything. But the thing was, he felt a lot more as if he were running _to_ something. Rodney was half-right; the other fifty percent was that they were needed a lot more in Pegasus than here. "What they said. I agree."

He turned his head just in time to hear Teyla's soft exhalation. From one moment to the next, her posture was more relaxed than any vacation could accomplish. "I too believe it would be best to return, Mr. Woolsey." The Athosians. Of course she'd be relieved to get back to her people.

"I wouldn't mind returning to my Pegasus research, either. Once _en route_, the labs won't be blocked by SGC personnel any more." Jennifer smiled a little wryly. Her brief affirmation made John notice that Jennifer had been quiet so far. Not that she was usually loud. Just, no input from her at all was unusual.

Woolsey's facial expression left nothing to the imagination. "What, you all agree?" Nods all around the table. "Even though not all repairs are completed?"

Rodney wiped that away as fast as it had come: "Nothing we couldn't repair on our own over time, especially now that we've re-stocked materials."

"Right." Woolsey probably saw the San Francisco opera house disappear in his mind's eye. John wasn't exactly feeling his pain. "Well, in this case - I'll have to talk to the IOA, not to mention the SGC."

Now that he'd seen his Team's reactions - their _relief_, John didn't feel like stretching their departure out. "Mr. Woolsey. Sir." Yeah, that didn't come out particularly submissive, and John liked it that way. "Ask them to make it sooner rather than later."

"How soon?"

"Same time, same place - twenty-four hours from now, and we can be gone. Just think of the danger of discovery you talked about, the potential consequences of us staying. Also?" John looked at Woolsey, didn't look away when he had his attention. "No time like the present."

::

This time John caught Rodney in the hallway while they were walking towards the command room. "That went well."

"Euphemism of the century, Colonel," but his snort sounded amused enough. "I know we put everybody on stand-by, but it's not as if they'll love being called back from their de-facto vacations. One single day?"

"One day's enough."

"Says the guy who only packed a movie poster, a panda shirt, and a convoluted Russian novel for a mission into the unknown." Not that Rodney had his heart in it; unlike some of the Atlantis personnel, he did seem pretty happy to leave. Whatever had happened in Wisconsin hadn't made for great Earth memories.

John didn't have to pretend to be interested in that story. "So?"

"Right." Rodney pressed his lips together, but only for a second. "As you may have surmised, Jennifer and I broke up. She said, however, that we should please stay friends and colleagues." He threw a less than furtive look back, but either John and Rodney were fast, or Jennifer was slow in exiting the conference room today.

Probably both.

Rodney and her breaking up was pretty much what he'd expected from their behaviours, but it still hurt because fuck, Rodney was hurting. The part of John that did not - not at all - think this was easy to ignore for the moment. "Wow. That sucks."

"Again with making it sound a lot more harmless than it is. This was probably my last chance at a normal life. My only chance." Now he really sounded lost; this wasn't the usual Rodney drama.

In fact, the lack thereof was what worried John most. His hand had somehow made it to Rodney's shoulder, warm and solid under his fingers. "Sorry, McKay."

"Aren't we all." And wow, that came out bitter. "It's what Jennifer said, too, you know? How sorry she was, but that, wait wait for it," a brief laugh, "that we just weren't in the same stage of life. That our plans just didn't align. Smart, right? She is a smart girl, she really is; that I knew that from the start." Rodney blinked at the door to the main lab as if he'd never seen it before. Not that John had really realized where they were going.

"But?" John looked around, made sure no one else was entering the lab and close enough to overhear. Rodney wasn't a private person, but this went a little beyond food preferences and judging your colleagues.

Rodney blinked at at him. "I met her father, you know? And that, as they say, was that."

Oh. Crap. "He hated you."

"He loved me!" Rodney's waved his hands. "The man - look, Hank Keller actually _appreciates_ knowledge, and, and _life experience_!" John could've said something about what Rodney thought was life, but not now. "He had an interest in my doctorates, my research - well, the fact that I have done research and saved a few lives here and there; obviously I didn't get into any classified information. I could tell him about the homes I own and the stocks -"

"…homes, plural?"

"Well, yes; property is a good investment; not that this is at all relevant to the conversation." It kinda was. But John just nodded, let Rodney continue. "So he asked The Question, the one about my intentions towards his daughter: if this was just a diversion, an interlude - my words, not his - and I told him the big fat truth! How I loved Jennifer and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, right?"

"Right." Also right that these words made something in John's chest clench down pretty damn hard.

"He was thrilled! Apparently, Jennifer had brought home only, uh, 'idiotic little boys' before, 'all afraid of commitment.' He talked about family: how he'd never expected to survive his wife, especially not given their relative ages. Sheppard, I do need to propagate my genes, after all, not getting any younger - or more alive, frankly, judging from our latest stunt - and kids aren't so bad. So when he asked, I answered honestly that yes, of course I wanted children in the near future, which made him give me a back-clap that I took hours to recover from."

John was beginning to see the problem here. "Lemme guess: Jennifer wasn't so ecstatic?"

"No, she really, really wasn't." Miserable was not a good look on Rodney. John wanted to - he wanted - well; what he _could_ actually do was swing his arm around Rodney's shoulders and steer him along to less populated corridors, to that large storage room area a bit further South, for example. "When she came out of the kitchen, none too happy to begin with? Seems she doesn't like cooking, so when her father congratulated her on the plan of finally settling down and having kids, that didn't go over so well. Neither did the whole time until we got here, frankly."

John had considered it before, but now it bore saying: "Well, crap."

"No kidding, John." Rodney craned his head to look at John, really look at John, "I'm just glad you - um, wait." Rodney's comm; his hand flew to his ear. "Zelenka? Yes, you heard right. If Woolsey gets the relevant yays, we'll be off later this evening. I re-checked the functionality of the hyperdrive last night at 3 am. Hold on," he looked pleadingly at John, still far from content but at least focused on something that made him a little more so.

"Look, John, I'm - how about lunch? Somewhere that's not the mess hall, please."

_Please_. Rodney saying that word without his usual sarcasm only made John feel worse for him. "Sure, of course. Um." Some place that was private but not too intimate: none of their rooms and not the pier (where he had so not said good-bye). "How about Sam the Whale's balcony?" The way Rodney's face brightened made John's hard little heart grow three sizes. "I'll rustle up some sandwiches."

"Yes, yes, thanks. See you in a bit." And with one last long look at John, Rodney sped off towards the labs.

Turned out Zelenka had overestimated the power requirements, as ever the overcritical Czech mechanic at heart, but then again, Rodney guessed he could be forgiven, for once. The wormhole drive had been the kind of eleventh-hour savior Rodney could have come up with and probably _would_'ve come up with had he been on the ship at the time. Not that he was petty.

"I tell you, Rodney, the necessity that we do not disrupt the surface of the ocean will require enormous amounts of power, power that we didn't take into account in previous calculations where secrecy wasn't a factor." And Zelenka pushed up his glasses pointedly.

"Oh, please," Rodney said loftily, "not as if I couldn't offset the power surge by deactivating a key set of systems not essential for lift-off, like this..." _Like this_ brand-new energy supply formula that Rodney had to come up with in the ten seconds it took Radek to toddle over and peer sceptically at his laptop screen - four, three, two, "...see? Besides, once we're off, all the reporters in the world won't be able to find anything substantial."

Even while saying it, he knew that last bit wasn't true - _CSI_ might have been over-dramatized and under-lit Jerry Bruckheimer television that raised ridiculous expectations in juries, but there was a core of truth to the wonders of modern technology. Details could be telling; not all the devils Rodney knew had facial tattoos.

Zelenka knew all of this as well as Rodney did. For some weird reason, however, he didn't argue the point but merely gave Rodney a long, long look before bending over his computer. Whatever. It was lunch-time, anyway, and Sheppard would be waiting. That was always a good thing. He'd been enormously understanding so far, and really, Rodney was impressed. For someone so...disassociated from his emotions, Sheppard sure knew how to say the right things, and when to say them.

::

Walking through the hallways, Rodney thought that maybe his step was already a bit lighter. Good friends had that effect, he guessed. Exactly what all the books and movies said, right? Someone to share absolutely all experiences with, to help you shoulder the weight of life's less than perfect moments, and also to take you down under the sea in a puddlejumper for the whale-watching you'd always wanted to do.

The balcony doors had already slid open, which meant that - yes, John was already there, leaning more or less casually against the railing. He'd lost the uniform jacket at some point and stripped down to a black t-shirt that hugged his upper body in ways Rodney supposed were non-regulation. Not that he minded; Rodney was very much a guy who could, in theory, appreciate another guy's nicely shaped body. Only that this didn't sound quite right in his mind; in his head what he actually meant was -

"Rodney, hey." John had turned around, eyes warm, although there were faint lines of tension around his mouth. "You okay? Couldn't bring beer or anything, but hope it'll do."

That which 'would do' was a table full of tiny-sandwich trays, golden-crispy pastries in several shapes, forms, and sizes and at least three kinds of soft drinks. John had even managed to talk the kitchen staff out off a bowl of salad and some cut fruit, the admirable bastard. Somehow, somewhere, he'd obviously located a table and two chairs, and the design didn't look like -

"Are these _Ancient deck chairs_?"

"Hmm? Oh, those. Yeah, found them in a storage room nearby." As if John had tripped over them on the way here, which Rodney assumed was an act of Sheppard's to keep up his cool. Rodney had learned early on that showing, God help us all, showing interest in anything at all was automatically branded as lame.

But Rodney knew him better than that. Sheppard had been _looking_ for furniture, after taking care of lunch in the first place, and - and Rodney had trouble suppressing the grin he knew was appearing on his face. "Good. That's good," he said inanely, still smiling.

After they'd settled down in their chairs on both sides of the table, Rodney helping himself to a couple of amazingly tasty salmon-and-wasabi sandwiches, Rodney peered over at John again, who gave him a smile and a nod. He was certainly going for the 'nonchalant yet caring' routine, prepared to listen to Rodney outline all the details of the break-up, and his heart-break, and, well, yet more of said heart-break.  
None of which was fair to the guy, though, come to think of it.

Had Sheppard ever chewed his ear off about women? Well, there had been Chaya and their rather vocal arguments over her - and huh, should it smite so, after all this time? - but afterwards, John hadn't mentioned her again. Or gone off to her planet, for that matter (and if Rodney knew this, it was only because he was a diligent head of science, not at all because he controlled the jumper logs for where John specifically had gone.)

Same for his ascended Ancient woman in that village suspended in time. When Rodney had asked about her roughly two months later, Sheppard had given him a blank look and an even blanker answer.

True, Sheppard had occasionally mentioned Larrin after their little adventures, adventures with gratuitous torture sessions that Sheppard had not hated as much as he pretended, if Rodney had understood correctly. But that was only to be expected, Rodney thought: Long-legged, well-endowed space pirates were hot in ways he'd previously only associated with Sam Carter. Not that Rodney was into the S/M element, but to each his own.

Come to think of it? When it came to women, it seemed John Sheppard didn't whine, wring his hands, or bemoan his sad, solitary fate.

So maybe Rodney should take a page out of his book, undoubtedly black and a little rough at the edges. So he squared his shoulders and his jaw manfully. "You know, Sheppard, maybe it was for the best."

"Come again?" Now John looked positively confused, and clearly Rodney was a bad friend for finding this downright touching. "You're saying you're not heart-broken over Jennifer leaving you?"

Oh. Put like that, it was - actually, no; nothing was like a knife sliding into your flesh except a _knife sliding into your flesh_. Still, it gave Rodney a pang of pain. "Oh. Put it like that, it - well, it hurt. Thanks for your...concern."

John frowned, so maybe that was not the clearest answer. "I'm just saying, it would be okay if you were, you know. Sad."

Wow, that came out honest, vaguely quiet, not at all like Sheppard's easy-going charades with acquaintances and strangers. John deserved a response of the same quality.

Rodney was decidedly not happy at the moment: empty, disappointed, bewildered - how could he have prevented this when he was nothing but truthful? All of that, yes. But sad? While sitting on Sam the whale's balcony with John, who'd been feeding him tasty dishes and fetching picnic equipment left and right for him, in the sunshine, with Atlantis going home soon?

"You know," Rodney said slowly, twisting in his deck chair to face him, making sure he had Sheppard's attention - and Jesus Christ, yes, he had it; John didn't look at people like this, with such interest, with _intent_ otherwise, "I'm not good. But I think I will be."

And Sheppard, John, he didn't smile like that often enough.

They ate their lunch in companionable silence.

::

His comm beeped. "McKay." Superfluous to even ask. Only Ronon made questions sound like statements. Rodney swallowed the last bit of utterly delicious pastry and activated the comm. "What is it?"

"Got a question about images on computers."

Right. Except - what? John raised an eyebrow, and Rodney tried to explain that yes, it was Ronon, and no, it wasn't an emergency, using only his hands. John tilted his head and nodded, wiping his hands on the - wait, John had brought napkins too?

"Ronon, what sort of question is this, and more importantly: what sort of images?"

Behind them, the door whooshed open, and Ronon stepped out onto the balcony. Clearly, they should never have let those instructions to individually calibrate the life-force sensors lying around where Ronon could see them.

Speaking of seeing them. Ronon took in the pastries, John, and him with a slow but most likely meaningful eye-brow waggle (and how did he get to do that? It never looked anything but silly on Rodney).

"Sheppard," Ronon said in greeting, then unceremoniously snagged a pastry before swinging around to face Rodney. "Images from the mainland to Atlantis, McKay. How can we get them?"

"Like what? Paintings? Drawings? Have you let yourself get ripped off by one of the so-called street artists in San Francisco?"

Ronon's mouth curled, as always amused about things, or more likely by Rodney. "Photos, McKay. Taken by a photographer."

John was possibly as flabbergasted as Rodney because his voice pitched noticeably higher. "Let me get this straight, Ronon: you had your picture taken - in a real studio?"

"Why not?"

"Just," Rodney could not honestly be expected to explain to Ronon the narcissist idiocy of this concept, about as far from some noble warrior creed as it got, "it seems silly and expensive."

"It's useful. And they paid me."

But of course they did. A fifteen-minute stroll through a city like San Francisco probably meant fifteen separate offerings of sex, modeling contracts, or filming gigs for Ronon. "Fine, fine; you're the next big star. What do you need me for, showing you how to work that r.dex@atlantis.gov email of yours?"

"Rodney." John's drawl, which never boded well. "We've still got no mail without Gate transmissions. How about we take one last trip to the city, and you transfer the files so Ronon can actually, I don't know, _use_ them later on? One last Earth mission, kinda?" He did look as if this mattered to him, so hmm, why not? Rodney rolled his eyes and, in lieu of a response, got up.

"Cool. I'll get Teyla. You and Ronon, meet me in the jumper bay."

::

 

::

The studio turned out to be part of an art gallery complex in North Beach. People in black leather, Sartre glasses, or both were swarming around; model types of both sexes with vapid smiles mingling with hipsters, and the less said about those, the better. Asking for the photographer's name had led them through a maze of art that Teyla found worthwhile, John found "interesting," and Rodney found explicitly horrendous, only to arrive at Roberto's Atélier, which displayed enough space, silver, and high-end equipment that Rodney thought this one might actually have some semblance of taste, after all.

"Huh," he told John. "I had been thinking, back-yard studio." For the last word, he added air quotes that made John grin. Mission accomplished.

"These are actually quite nice." Teyla was studying the framed photos on the wall in passing, and Rodney had to confess they displayed some skill. Also pedigree; a whole row of them were covers of fashion magazines, from _Vogue_ to _Cosmopolitan_ to _GQ_.

"Told you so." Ronon said. "Yes, well," Rodney muttered.

Ronon wasted no time, admittedly: upon seeing the curly-haired, skinny guy with the camera in the corner, he ambled over to him, presumably to secure the photographs taken in the last session. Teyla was still in the hallway, fingers running lightly over a shot of a nude woman in a position that had made Rodney crane his neck when he'd passed it; fair enough.

"I agree with Teyla," John said, unexpectedly, and also unexpectedly close - not looking at Rodney, though, but staring at the walls, the artwork. "These are nice."

"Of course they are." Rodney gave him a look. "Pretty people tend to look pretty. It's what keeps the whole entertainment industry afloat, Sheppard."

John shook his head, his hand gentle but firm on Rodney's elbow. "C'mere, Rodney." And he - okay, he didn't drag. He didn't have to. But somehow Rodney still ended up next to him at a group of photographs in small frames, wide photo-mounts. No models here, that much was certain: an old man in black-and-white on a bench in front of a gas station store with barred windows. A freckled, chubby girl in a green dress who didn't smile, didn't even look fully into the camera while playing hopscotch, white lines stark against impossibly red earth. A black woman in probably her fifties wearing a flowing gold dress and such a stunning smile for the photographer that it made Rodney feel half-ashamed and voyeuristic.

He looked at John again. "Well, fine. Normal people, pretty photos; point taken. And yet -" he faltered, because how could he say what he was going to say, except that John was staring at him not unlike he'd been staring at the walls.

"And yet?"

Oh, what the hell. "It's easy for you to admire all of this, Sheppard, because you're not at all out of place here. If you were a few years younger - oh, probably even now; just look at you," that got him a single raised eyebrow, "you could be the one getting modeling contracts, being approached all around town on the street by by photographers with an eye for -" Rodney swallowed, but fortune favored the brave, right? God, he hoped it did, "attractive people."

His insides cramped up a little, because John would start laughing any minute now, but that never happened. Instead, John bit his lip and looked away - in the direction of the photos but not _at_ the photos, Rodney noticed.

"Rodney," Sheppard said slowly, still not looking at him, "if this guy took photos of you, you too would look fucking _stunning_." That - wasn't a joke. John was actually serious? Rodney felt his jaw drop, and that or perhaps something else in Rodney's face must've made him go on, slow and hesitant, but going on nevertheless, "Your eyes. The, the line of your shoulders. When you're actually working on something, focused, concentrated. I don't know; I just - oh hey, look, Ronon's done."

And off he went like a rocket, leaving Rodney - stunned, in fact, very stunned.

::

They did manage to exit more or less together, leaving a trail of wide-eyed artists in their wake before walking downtown from North Beach, downtown, in this city, actually meaning _down_.

Stupid, John thought as he watched his step, the stair-steps they had to take on the sidewalks. It was one thing to build Rodney up when necessary, either by challenging him or by being, well, _supportive_, but this was different. No need to go on like this: no worlds about to be destroyed, no millions of lives about to be lost. It hadn't been like helping a dying buddy either, one you loved like a friend - and wow, had that ever been a load of bullshit. One he was pretty sure everyone around the table had seen through.

Well, everybody but Rodney.

At least John had Ronon to - not precisely talk to, but hang around next to while walking through the neighborhoods. During that first ride through the city after splashdown Teyla had insisted on, she'd seen a baby store somewhere in Russian Hill to get stuff for Torren.

Sure, at the moment, Kanaan was caring for him on Atlantis, but that didn't stop her from thinking about the kid. John could, if not feel it, then at least understand it. Leaving a part of yourself somewhere else like that?

As for the store, it wasn't like Teyla to do cutesy, but this one supposedly had all-natural goods, eco-friendly and whatnot. (Why Teyla would want that from Earth when she could get organic baby stuff all over the Pegasus galaxy - and nothing else - wasn't quite clear to John. But it probably didn't have to be.)

"John, are you well?"

John threw a sideways look at Teyla, who'd caught up with him at some point when he wasn't looking. Ronon threw them both an unreadable look and slowed his step, falling behind.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You look a little unsettled."

Was this really the time for Teyla to be her perceptive self? John glanced behind them, where Ronon was ribbing Rodney about breathing a little hard after the fourth flight of stone steps in the street, up the hill yet again. Standard Ronon-Rodney interaction, really.

"I'm good. I guess I'm simply ready to leave." Not wrong. John didn't lie to Teyla, after all. Not that he could have.

She wasn't buying that. Testament to their friendship, he supposed. John had long stopped believing in that Serene Earth Mother shit that new expedition members often associated with Teyla in the beginning. Usually until she kicked their ass in the gym, or broke the neck of a Wraith with her bare hands - he'd seen her do that and _enjoy_ it, which had made him...appreciate, yes, appreciate her even more.

"I'm sort of mulling things over, I guess."

"Things." Teyla inclined her head, as if that hadn't been the lamest answer in the history of the world. It was a little gratifying to see that she could not, after all read his mind.

John glanced over roughly a millisecond before cursing himself, because now - now Teyla's expression changed. "Things that involve _Rodney_, you mean?"

"Yeah."

John half-expected sage advice from her. But he should've known better: Teyla just laced her fingers with his and squeezed them with exactly the right pressure, warm and dry.

::

"Come on, John," she said, smiling at him. "The store is right here. Surely you can help me pick out a toy or two that give Earth children joy?"

Well, he had owned a shitload of toys as a child. So he was probably a good counselor. Better than Mr. Cried Himself To Sleep As A Baby over there.

"Sure thing, Teyla."

When Teyla wasn't looking, he'd also totally get Torren something to play with just from John. The kid was getting to the age where he liked bright things that made noises.

John totally understood.

::

By the time they returned to Atlantis via the cloaked jumper, it was late afternoon. John continued to dodge Rodney and instead located Woolsey, who had to deal with the usual IOA bickering and fill out roughly fifty pounds of paperwork. He was glad to see him, have John around to help him push the agenda. John could be pushy if and when he wanted to be.

Military superiors in the past had called it obstinate, but hey.

The SGC, at least, didn't seem too beaten up about them leaving early-ish, but then, Sam was still at Cheyenne Mountain. And she was nothing if not reasonable: Atlantis wasn't needed on Earth any more, with the subspace signal dead and only that one hiveship having responded. John missed Sam, and a little more so now that he'd met her again. Even though Woolsey had turned out to be an alright guy, he just wasn't her - wasn't what Ronon had once called a 'good mix between Sheppard and McKay.' It had been funny at the time, but also weirdly true.

Rodney, meanwhile, tried to talk to him on the comm not once, but several times over the course of the day. If John didn't reply, or replied only with a curt, "Busy, McKay," each time, it was only because he too had some papers to fill out, some soldiers to herd back, some lists to make and check. Twice.

When John didn't leave his office immediately after finishing the bare administrative essentials, though, he he had to admit he was being avoidant. Which wasn't just childish but pretty much pointless: Once they were taking off, traveling back to another galaxy through hyperspace would take a while. The city was big, but John didn't want to be on the run or be a coward.

Bottom line, he wanted to spend that time with Rodney, not without. Leaning back, he hit the comm button with a sigh. "McKay?"

"Well, it's about time, Sheppard! How come you find yourself gifting my lowly self with an answer after what, five times?" Definitely grumpier than before, but still way below the average Rodney levels.

"Yeah, I know. So, how about dinner?"

He could almost taste Rodney's hesitation. A part of him probably wanted to rant for a moment, but the rest still hadn't forgotten John's words in the studio this afternoon. Even if Rodney couldn't place them properly, they were clearly out of place in normal guy-talks.

"Hrm, if you insist. My quarters, um. Eight-ish?"

He was having dinner in Rodney's quarters? Okay. No reason for his face to heat up and his gut to tighten, a little. It was very definitely a bad idea to read anything into that.

Bad ideas. John totally wasn't known for those.

::

Much as Rodney hated it, he had to wipe his hands again.

Food: got it. Drink: absolutely. Table - Earth-style, but yes. Chairs? Easy; Ramirez next door totally didn't need all of them and had agreed to lend Rodney both of hers. Not like system engineers ever had parties in their rooms - they did that in Lab E on the basement level, and Rodney wished he didn't even know that.

Where the hell was Sheppard? Another glance at his clock proved that yes, it was still 8:44 pm, and that they were back to a 24-hour day had required not just manual but also some psychological adjustment the first two weeks.

Just when he was about to activate his comm and call Sheppard - for the sixth time, and why was he even keeping count? - the door opened. "Sorry," John said, a little out breath and, hallelujah, meeting Rodney's eyes again, "Woolsey had some last-minute issues with his special friends at the IOA."

Hah. "The ones that aren't feeling so friendly any more after he didn't come to heel when they whistled?"

"The same." John smirked and stepped fully inside. "I don't think -" his voice faltered upon seeing the table Rodney had prepared.

Most likely, it was the tablecloth that threw him (as well it should; Rodney had had to beg Schneider in the mess for a full five minutes). Or maybe the specialty sandwiches (easier, because Rodney had mentioned they were for John, which meant that said master of the mess hall didn't hesitate preparing them). There was a chance it was either the white candles or the pinot noir too (which Rodney still had from the Cadman scheme and some wine-tasting with the Team that third night in San Francisco).

It was possible that Rodney had gone a little overboard. Mostly as a reaction to Sheppard's balcony lunch...except it didn't feel like one of their little games of one-upmanship. Not quite.

"This - this is our dinner?" John eyed the table, then Rodney, then the table again. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips.

Speaking of dry, Rodney's throat was too. Unlike his palms, but he did resist wiping his hands one more time. "No, of course not; I thought it'd be an utterly fantastic idea to prepare all of this for Woolsey and that statuesque imaginary girlfriend of his."

Something about John's posture eased up a little. "She wasn't imaginary, just an alien with an agenda. Guess it was his turn with one of those." He was still smiling, but he wasn't looking at Rodney any more. "You got us pot roast sandwiches, Rodney." His stepped up, then ran his thumb slowly over the cloth, back and forth.

"I thought - I thought you might like pot roast sandwiches." Rodney winced at how stupid his statement must have sounded, but really, with so many alien meats tasting like chicken? John had to be bored of those.

"I do." John looked up, and Rodney wasn't sure he'd ever seen this expression on John's face. Softer. Not relaxed but - accepting, maybe? "Shall we?"

They sat down. Rodney opened the wine; as he didn't do this often, he had to concentrate on the corkscrew, holding the bottle firmly. When he looked up, John was tracking the movement of his hands.

Of course, John always did pay attention, even if he couldn't be arsed to admit to it. And yet.

"So, um, I heard you gave Torren a hanging baby mobile with airplanes that makes jet-engine noises when it turns?"

John blinked, then grinned, ten years younger at once. "Teyla laughed, Rodney - and yeah, thanks, just a little, I guess." Rodney poured the wine with great care, which was good because it gave him something to focus on, at least until John tasted the wine - really tasted it, as far as Rodney could tell: absently sniffing, then sampling a mouthful. Sometimes, Rodney forgot where this man came from. "Nothing wrong with wooden board games and clay dolls, but I thought Torren might like something with a little more flash, you know"?

"You're just saying this because you're on a secret mission of growing miniature US-Americans in faraway galaxies, Sheppard." Hmm, the wine was pretty mild, which was fine with Rodney. Maybe it would help him to relax a little. Rodney would have some more of it. Rodney poured himself another glass.

To his surprise, John didn't snort, or roll his eyes, or proceed with any of a million mocking responses. "And why not?" He took a contemplative-looking bite out of the sandwich on his plate before putting it back and raising an eyebrow. "The toys'll be pretty much the first thing to get Torren interested in machines. Might be of use later on with Atlantis and the Athosians being allies now - Torren could just be the first of many. If we do make it back to Pegasus," and there was the glint in Sheppard's eyes that Rodney had seen before: on hiveships, underwater, on alien planets, "there's really no reason to believe this mission isn't in it for the long haul."

"Kids in Pegasus? I don't know, John." Rodney chewed, frowned. "I mean, look at Teyla. And, uh, look back at Jennifer: Even if she ever wanted kids - far, far in the future, obviously - Pegasus was not the place for them. And working full time with small children just wasn't going to happen. Somebody'd have to stay at home, like Kanaan."

"It's been a place for them for thousands of years, Rodney." A shrug, another bite. "And childcare can be arranged, if it's what people want."

This was - different. Sheppard pondering these things, or the future in general and abstract terms. Rodney shouldn't have doubted him because he'd known all along that the man was brighter than the twin suns of PX-799 underneath that hair. And still, Sheppard threw him such curve balls. "I never knew you thought about children, John." Rodney knew he sounded surprised, which was probably because he was. Not unpleasantly so, though.

"Me neither." That smirk was pure Sheppard: a challenge. "But things change. People do." He threw Rodney a look that was as serious as they got. "I'm not much one for babies, Rodney. But kids, once they can talk and play? It'll be fun."

Rodney wasn't honestly sure if they were still talking about Torren. He was about to ask - no, honestly; he _was_! - when Sheppard's comm made a tinny sound, and Sheppard's face went all business, fully in the here and now. "Temporary stand-still? I don't think so. I'll be right there, Woolsey." To Rodney, he said, in another voice, "Sorry. I'm needed at the bridge. But -"

"But?" The wine hadn't calmed Rodney down as much as it should have, obviously.

"But I could -" Sheppard broke off, licked his lips again. His tongue was red from the wine, and even in the lower light, his lips looked pinker than usual. "I could get back to you afterwards." The look that he threw Rodney at that did weird things to Rodney's insides.

"I - I'd like that. Yes."

John's smile in passing didn't help. Didn't help that feeling at all.

::

Funny how some things that looked hard were simple for John while others that looked so simple were near-damn impossible for him.

Convincing the IOA to let them go had required little more than Woolsey being what he was: at once so upstanding as to be stiff...and crafty, in a dry way. John had mostly provided military backing: standing in front of the video screen and looking both soldierly and solid. It hadn't hurt to add his drawled commentary, though - how the fragile hold on this so-called Alliance would evaporate if they were not to return soon, and the original muscle would appear, barring Pegasus forever, boy howdy!

Okay, so John hadn't actually said the _boy howdy_ part. Still came through loud and clear.

Now, walking back to Rodney's quarters, though, John didn't know whether to speed up or slow his step. Making a move on Rodney? No woman, from alien archaeologists over red-headed botanists to obviously too-young doctors, had ever had trouble with that. But then, they'd had the advantage of boobs and soft skin and all the things Rodney clearly liked a lot in a person.

But then, he'd screamed for John in his last waking moments. He followed John into the hell of a hiveship every other Thursday. And yeah, there was that little thing of trusting John with his life in general.

If John didn't take the plunge at this point, he never would. At this point, Rodney seemed softer, more vulnerable after the break-up, but that wasn't it; John would be a shitty friend if he used that to his advantage. But for the first time in years, Rodney seemed to have sensed that there was something between them. Maybe it really only took a few compliments, and all the women John had loved and wanted had been 100% right, after all.

Time for a last deep breath at Rodney's door, and a last look around for good measure.

"Rodney? Hey." Wow, his heart was racing. That was...new.

Through the open door, John walked into the slightly darkened room. Rodney must've been sitting at his desk, blue-lit by the computer screen; he stood up now and wiped his hands on his pants. His eyes were wide and dark in the low light. "John, hi; please don't take this the wrong way, in spite of the fact that in such situations with, uh, male buddies, I'm not really sure there's even a right way to take it although I'd be glad if you nevertheless chose that one -"

"Breathe, Rodney." Against all expectations, John relaxed a little. "And just spit it out."

"Are we dating?"

Yeah, there went John's feeling of relaxation. "What?"

The crease on Rodney's forehead deepened into a frown, and whether he knew it or not, he took a half-step back. Opened his mouth, too, but John'd had enough at the first two reactions, so wrong because Rodney was right, because John _wanted Rodney to be right_. "We could be, if you wanted to. Dating, I mean."

Cringe-worthy. Crap, John really sucked at this. To his defense, he usually took great care to avoid any and all such talks.

Rodney nodded, staring but maybe not so much the deer-in-the-headlights as the fucking headlights themselves: John felt a lot like bolting and running, if only he hadn't also been frozen to the spot. "Rodney, say something."

"Um, sure." Rodney seemed a little calmer now, more measuring. Literally; his gaze was wandering up and down John's body. "I could, I could perhaps mention the fact that I had no idea? That you -" Rodney: at a loss for words that weren't, _fuck guys too_ or _are a secret queer_ or _were dodging DADT quite so fabulously_.

The whole sinking-heart feeling? Not a myth.

"John, wait; don't look at me like that. I do want - want to try it, you know? With you. It's just that for the first time since, actually, my _first time_, I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing." There was that pleading look again. "Not even the beginnings of a theory!"

Right. Maybe Rodney just didn't want to let him down gentl - okay, fuck, no way; this was Rodney, the original What You See Is What You Get guy. No games, no bullshit.

"So, you wanna practice?" Yeah, yeah. John winced internally. "We could take it, you know. Slow."

Leave it to Rodney to not laugh but _nod_ at that. Eagerly, too.

One small step for - actually, it was a seriously long step. Although Rodney was smiling now, tentative, still so clearly out of his depth. But that made two of them. Here went nothing.

The first touch of their lips was - really close to weird. John had - not let himself think about this, but if he had, he wouldn't have predicted it would go down this way: slightly odd angle, stubble catching the tip of his nose and almost making him sneeze. Rodney stiffened a little, too, and not in the good way, until Rodney _laughed_, a breathless little snort. "Wow, you're _terrible_ at this, Sheppard."

John licked his lips, testing the taste, finding that one great, at least, "Shouldn't that be, Wow, you're terrible at this, _John_?"

All right, now he was grinning too, and somehow, that made it easier. Rodney's lips twisted, his expression at once amused and oh, fuck, determined as hell. The touch of his hands - capable, so capable - on John's clavicle, light but firm, sliding up, one hand curling gently around the nape of John's neck. "Let's try this again, John," Rodney murmured, already moving in, drawing John in. John closed his eyes.

And yeah, okay. _This_ was kissing.

John leant into it, moved against the solid heat that was Rodney McKay. More breathless now, the slide of their lips fast and deep. John felt himself harden, pushing forwards more deliberately now. He was touching Rodney now, finally letting his fingers run up and down his biceps, stroking the fine hair at the nape of Rodney's neck. A fast learner, that was Rodney: one large hand followed the curve of John's spine, pressing into the small of his back with enough force to half-tumble John forward, sharply into Rodney, who was -

Who was also gloriously hard against John. Who tore his mouth away only with dismay, flushed and beard-burned, lips wet and open. "Oh, wow. You - wait, is this okay? Or too fast?"

John had always been an Actions Speak Louder than words kind of guy. So he kissed Rodney again, one hand still gripping his arm, and with the other grabbed the top of Rodney's button fly and _pulled_.

"Oh, God." Choked out, these two words, and they hadn't even gotten to the good part yet. John wasn't even talking about Rodney's cock, pressing against his fingers, already damp at the tip when he freed it from the boxer shorts. The slickness only spread when John started to play with him in earnest, all the while trading kisses that were a little sloppier now because Rodney was panting a little, and also trying to stare down at John's hand pumping him slowly. The - Christ, the _sounds_: Rodney moaning, but also the glide-and-click of the handjob.

It was - fuck, now Rodney's hands were fumbling at John's own pants, up for this challenge, and John's hips were doing all the talking they needed, because Rodney clearly got this, and whether because he was a guy or because he was a genius didn't matter at this moment. He sure as hell didn't hesitate gripping John's cock, and not with one of those careful little touches either. _Hands-on_, John thought dizzily; he should've known, and Jesus, Rodney was every bit as great with them as John had -

John came, and it wasn't particularly soft or sweet.

When he managed to look up again, Rodney was still staring down. Fascinated, open-mouthed…and, yeah, still very, very interested in John's fingers, slack as they were right now.

When John flexed them again, Rodney shivered. This had potential, a fuckload of it. John knew, and not just because it took him only three more fast-and-hard pulls until Rodney shot all over his fist, too.

After which they undressed, haphazardly, and made it to the bed. Rodney's bed.

Wow.

::

He woke up much later, Rodney wrapped half-behind, half-around him life like a blanket. Way too hot and sweaty in theory but amazing in practice. With some effort, John turned his head: outside, the first touches of color appeared in the sky. Rodney was stirring, though; it was what had woken John in the first place.

It took minimal effort to roll over until they he and Rodney were facing each other. Mouths on other, kissing before they even realized it, so fucking _hungry_, and yeah, it was too early, way too early, but John - he needed this. "Rodney," he said against Rodney's lips, "I want you to - I want you inside me, okay?"

He wasn't being pushy. He was just…giving the guy some inspiration, a goal. The paths Rodney took - wherever that was - would be worth each fucking minute.

"I - yes. Yes, please." Rodney's eyes had drifted half-shut, or maybe still were, but even so his mouth was hot on John's, and Christ, there were some teeth involved that made John shiver.

"Wait, I have - stuff." Rodney, who'd brought roughly a million personal items, had also brought lube, and his hands were as fast and sure opening the tube, slicking his fingers, as they were on Ancient technology. It made John push against Rodney a little harder, scoot up so his chest brushed Rodney's. It was only when Rodney's slick fingers came closer to ass that Rodney faltered a little. But John was totally a good leader, and he liked helping out team-mates: he reached back and gripped Rodney's wrist his hand around Rodney's, pulling it - pulling his slick fingers right where John wanted them to touch him. Badly.

And then Rodney pushed John up - easily, Jesus Jesus fucking Christ - so John could straddle him. The sharp explosions of sensation that sent across John's body made him almost forget the first entering touch of Rodney's index finger, as always still too-cold but getting warmer, _fuck_, getting there. Easy for John to slide even higher and deeper onto Rodney's fingers, at first. Onto Rodney's cock, then, fucking enormous, and John stilled. They both breathed, staring at each other, suspended. Time and space and all that rot.

Rodney was looking at him, right at him, and there was _wonder_. It shouldn't have made John shiver, but.

"Yeah," John gritted out, gently, experimentally rolling his hips, "fuck, Rodney, this is -"

"- us sucking at slow?"

And that's where John could only gasp in agreement, because Rodney pushing upwards hit that spot that made him see fucking stars, so he tilted his body and screwed his eyes shut - God, Rodney felt huge, but in a good way, in a fucking great way, and that was when Rodney drag-flipped John onto his back, guiding his slick cock back inside John immediately. John could, John did spread his legs, heat rushing up his body. Heat was rushing into his face too, but what the hell, this was Rodney: sex with Rodney, and Rodney was really going for it, long strokes now that made John's eyes water a little; why he didn't know. Wide open, and Rodney was listening to his, to John's moans - adjusting angles, fully focused and looking so, so amazing.

John threw his head back and groaned. Groaned and came in a thick, blazing rush, body trembling like fever, feeling Rodney follow almost right after that.

::

High up on the balcony where they had first stood upon their return, Ronon coughed. No, really: he coughed, none too subtly. "Guys?"

"Hmm?" Rodney, still buzzing in ways he wasn't quite sure how he should feel about, turned his head, saw Teyla and John do the same. John was squinting into the morning sun as he stared at Ronon. Only this time it was only the four of them, only the Team. This time, they were saying good-bye. A few minutes of respite before John would head down to the Chair to fly the city.

Fly them back to Pegasus.

"Got something for you. For remembrance." With a quick gesture that, oddly enough, lacked his usual grace, Ronon pulled a little silver frame out of a little bag - one, and three more.

Teyla took one, looked at it for long moments. "This is a beautiful photo of you, Ronon."

Rodney was curious; he was just more curious about Ronon's gift to _him_. Which showed a Ronon perfectly _mis-en-scène_, scowling into the camera _au Ronon_: the edges of his grin were visible, displaying the warmth that was all Ronon underneath the façade. Just looking at it made Rodney smile.

When he looked at his teammates, Teyla was focusing on Ronon again, her voice silk and steel. "Not that we require anything to remember you for as long as we live."

"Agreed." John, sounding a little hoarse, his hands tight around his own frame. "Thanks, buddy. These are great gifts."

Rodney tucked his away carefully into his pocket, and saw the others do the same.

"That, and more." Teyla said quietly, and for once, Rodney knew for a fact he grasped everything these - these absurdly beautiful warrior people were talking about.

So Rodney put his left hand on the railing next to John's. When he let his little finger touch John's, John's eyes closed. He looked calm, content. At rest.

It wasn't a coincidence that Rodney was feeling the same. "Look, John," he said when the engines started humming in the background, getting ready, the Bridge appearing gradually out of the rolling clouds of the fog, "we're going home. We did it."

"Yeah." John looked back at him and held his gaze. "All in a day's work."

"We're good like that."

"We're good, Rodney." And there was more to this statement, and oh, fuck it; it was just the Team on this balcony: Rodney put his hand slowly over John's. Who smiled at that - a big, goofy smile. Which just so happened to be insanely gorgeous.

They were. Good. Like this.

::

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to HavocTheCat for being her supportive yet snarky self, Alizarin_NYC for plotting and planning, Auburn for offering to come through through the swine flu, Lunabee34 for hide-saving last-minute beta duties, Panisdead for her post-posting input, and, of course, the mods of McShep Match, who were more patient than saints.


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